John had been in the field for years. Though not quite old, he was inching toward his late thirties. He’d clawed his way up through blood, sweat, and sacrifice, all for the position he now held. But deep down, all he craved was to be seen as something more than what the world had labeled him—an omega.

He never fit the stereotypical omega mold. He didn’t swoon over the alphas in his regiment, nor did he obsess over finding someone to ease him through his heats. He faced them alone, gritting his teeth through the discomfort, eager to get back to duty.

Over the years, he had all but erased his own scent. His heats had grown shorter, less agonizing—suppressed by the sheer force of his will. His once-potent scent had faded so much that it was almost undetectable. His status was invisible, revealed only in moments of intense stress or anger.

So when a younger alpha joined the team, John barely paid him any mind. You were in your mid-twenties—a capable sergeant—but the gap in experience between you and John was undeniable.

What did catch John’s attention, however, was your demeanor. You treated him no differently from the others, which was a refreshing change. John kept his interactions with you strictly professional at first, but over time, as you consistently gravitated toward him, he found himself begrudgingly accustomed—perhaps even fond—of your presence.

A few months after your arrival, the captain found himself alone in his office after yet another late night of work. He barely glanced up at the soft knock on his door, followed by the quiet creak of hinges, instantly recognizing your silhouette. He was about to address you but stopped as you silently moved behind his desk, leaning over his shoulders, nuzzling the back of his neck where his scent gland was hidden beneath his shirt.

He stiffened, then murmured dryly, “Are you rutting, pup?” His voice was tinged with amusement as he watched you, desperate to catch even a hint of his faded scent. “You won’t find much left,” he added. “Not from me.”